


Volumes Written with the Passage of Time

by LadyLiterature



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Adorable Morality | Patton Sanders, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders-centric, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, But also not, Dad!Roman, F/M, Fluff, Gray-Asexual Logan, I am an asshole, Kinda, Logan would punch me in the face, M/M, Minor Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Violence, Multi, Oops, Panic Attacks, Pansexual Roman, Patton would be proud of me, Protective Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Slice of Life, Temporary Character Death, The Author Regrets Everything, Virgil needs love and support, Why is Patton so hard to write??, and periodically throughout the story, and thats what matters, but i think that its fairly easy to figure out who is who, but i tried, but the others have POVs as well, extreme bouts of sadness, he is too nice, he tries, hes a great parent, i guess, i is unworthy, i kinda like a lot of the stuff i wrote for once, i think, it didn't work out that way, it doesn't happen chronologically, its weird, just a heads up, not because i wanted to, overly harsh magical curses, that should be an official tag, the four seasons - Freeform, the kids grow up fine though, the sides are not called their names at first?, the story is out of order, they aren't v important, they were supposed to get the same amount of screen time, they're gods, thomas' friends are very probably not in character bc idk much about them, uhhhhh, yo my titles a pun but you have to read the story to find out why, you can mostly ignore them, you might be a tad confused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-23 14:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15608112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLiterature/pseuds/LadyLiterature
Summary: The age of gods may be over, they may have shed their responsibilities like snakeskin many years ago when humans stopped believing, but do not for one second thing these stories don’t ring true. That once, long ago, they did not walk this earth. That they do not do so still.Do not be foolish, and do not let ignorance rule you, little one.Sit.Sit and learn. For knowledge is power. And it is a precious, fleeting and fragile thing.So come and learn. Learn of times long forgotten and stories half remembered. Learn of the gods and their adventures. Learn of their triumphs and defeats and heartbreaks.Learn that no matter that they are gods or legends or heroes; they are as human as you and I.orPatton cares A Lot™, Roman struggles through the burdens of fatherhood, and your heart gets ripped out. It's fine though.





	1. In the Sky We Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Day broke through Night's seemingly impenetrable armor.

The Sky Court is new.

Or, rather, it’s new to the gods. To the Earth and, quite possibly the universe around her, the Court is impossibly old. Virgil can feel the deep thrum of ancient magics woven into the pillars and stone itself.

It feels older than Time himself which says more about the Court’s supposed age than Virgil knows how to express.

So yes, the Court is Old, but new as well. Only two gods may set foot inside, chosen from the many among the pantheon for reasons unknown to Virgil. He only knows it’s meant to be a great honor.

It never feels like an honor.

Before, his duties as a Season were the worst. He carried the brunt of the work so the others hadn’t need to.

He would control the harvest and the crops and make sure the mortals had enough food to survive the winter but also a little extra so they could worship him so he could _continue_ protecting them and also make sure that the balance was steady _and also_ that he was dropping temperatures just the right amount _and also_ a million other things that left him exhausted and tired and ready to cry.

The only thing he ever truly enjoyed about his aspect was painting the leaves. The repetitiveness of the task was soothing when nothing else was.

He had wished for less work, less responsibility, less _necessity_ for his title.

Now, he wishes he could take it back. Take it back and suffer and keep his mouth _shut_ because this is so much worse.

Corralling the night sky is not easy by any means.

The stars are fire and heat and smoke. They refuse to sit still and only by sheer force of will can Virgil contain them to their seats so travelers may find their way across the great Earth. The moon is heavy in his hands as he holds it up, slowly, ever so slowly, carving its path across the night sky. He, alone, stays awake when others sleep.

Spends his time in suffocating silence, only the monsters rattling through the forest below to keep him company.

His mantel is a heavy one to bear but he’s never complained aloud and never will. Will never say a word about how he feels like he’s breaking under the weight of everything he must be, everything he must do.

Because now Spring suffers under a burden that is _so much worse._ Virgil would give anything to take it from him, but he _can’t._

Spring has become the Solar Queen, God of Daylight. He’s become a god of Many Things and now has a Name; he is now a true god.

It is supposed to be an _honor_.

Virgil thinks it more a shackle.

He doesn’t remember ever not having his Name. And still, the humans keep giving him more things to look over.

He is Autumn, the Protector, King of Stars, God of Night, the Ruler of Shadows, The Void, Stormbreaker, and many others. He is so many things. So many roles. So many different people yet none of them feel like _him._

Least of all the Protector. He protects his own. He protects what is _his_ and nothing else.

And he cannot even do _that_ right, it seems. And he wants to pull out his hair and destroy a mountain because Spring is _burning_ and _tired_ and the sun refuses to settle. To be _controlled._

And Spring must pay the price. Spring, the kindest of gods, the god who was the most broken and yet is somehow still so _bright_ and _kind_ and _amazing._ And now he _burns_ because Virgil _couldn’t do his damn job._

Spring ends the day tired. His hands blistering and skin blackened and peeling and flaking off his arms in a sickening manner.

He is a god and so he will heal, but the pain within the mind will stay. And the scars that cover his palms are a constant reminder of his endless pain in the Sky Court. Of his repeated torture.

Spring never cries, the heat of the sun dries the moisture in his eyes before he could even summon the thought of tearing up. So no, he doesn’t cry. But sometimes, Virgil can hear him _scream._

He screams and whimpers and shouts until his voice is hoarse. He sobs without the mercy of tears when he thinks no one is around to hear him. They are horrible, earth-shattering feelings. Sounds that should never leave the mouth of such a wonderfully light being.

But there is nothing Virgil can _do_ about it and it grates against him like a symphony of sour notes. Screeching inside him and setting his teeth on edge.

The best he can do is pass along as much power to Spring as possible. He leaves tree branches and flowers steeped in his magic on the throne of the court. Gifts for his equal in godhood. A symbol of good grace and well wishes. Magic told him once that it was a custom performed in the human world. Perhaps not something so personal, but a gift is a gift.

He doesn’t know the scientific properties of the plants he leaves as that’s more Winter’s area. And he certainly doesn’t know what they _mean_ because that’s Spring’s, but he leaves them all the same. They’re gone the next night when Virgil shows up to raise the moon and confine the stars, so he knows Spring does _something_ with them.

He just hopes he likes them. Hope they give him the boost he needs to get through the day.

He’s not sure if their magic is compatible, but he hopes all the same.

***

In the beginning, there was nothing. Only the darkness of the universe. Only molten rocks that were not yet planets and clouds of gas that were not yet stars. Only Space and Chaos.

And then, from this nothing and Space, stepped out Time.

They were the first and pushed everything into motion. No longer were things stagnant. No longer were things still.

Suddenly, everything was moving and the Beginning of Things fired off in rapid succession.

Everything tumbled and crashed and exploded into a million different beginnings. A million different _things_.

Everything had started and it would be so very, very long before they once again stopped. Before everything ended once more and began anew.

But for now, in the beginning, Time became the ruler of Light, Space grew to infinity and oversees all with her lover Chaos by her side, Mother Earth bloomed from the dust of scattered stars and molten rock. Magic burst from the core of a dying star, and Wisdom flew into existence and granted the others with awareness and control over their violent powers.

Many others would join the ranks of the Benevolent, and many of the Benevolent would change and grow. But not until after the Earth.

Not until the Humans came.

***

It’s one day, as Virgil leaves his customary gift of magic upon the throne, that something changes.

During the night the Court of Sky is bathed in deep blues and calming purples, black accents detailing small pieces and bioluminescent rocks and moss lighting the walls.

It’s simple and homey, despite its pretentious name.

The Throne was the only elaborate piece within the entire court. All striking silver and intricately carved dark oak displaying his favorite constellations and the many phases of the moon. It was unnecessarily fancy but the plush lilac velvet seat was the comfiest thing Virgil had yet to encounter.

He doesn’t know what Spring’s Court looks like and never will. It’s only when Spring is alone, does the Court fully shift to whatever bright, glamorous decor the other God prefers.

But, he knows what the in-between looks like. The meshing of their two Courts when it’s not quite day and not quite night, when the sun is rising or falling. When the magic of both their Courts mesh in an aching sort of not-mist, the warmth of sunlight and the chill of shadows all tangled up together.

The first time he sees it, he doesn’t stay long.

As he sets the flower upon the seat of the Throne--some orchid Virgil doesn’t know the name of but is a striking purple he finds that he likes very much--the Court around him shifts in the space of one blink and the next.

The calming lilac of the cushions beneath his hand turn to a creamy pink and the silvery night sky fades into a stunning rendition of the sunrise in rose gold and honey cream. There are other changes, but he doesn’t notice them right away.

Instead, he tenses, spinning on his heel with the flower still grasped in his hand--miraculously uncrushed--while he calls upon his magic in the other. The few shadows in the room flex at his command, lengthening and curling up in the palm of his hand, thick and heavy and inky black.

Before him, stands Daylight himself. A wide smile gracing her lips despite the surprise so clearly displayed in his expressive eyes.

The shadows in Virgil’s hand dissipate without him really thinking about it.

He looks different than Virgil remembers him being.

Spring is all bright greens and blues and pinks, flowers tangled in colorful hair and boisterous laughter dancing around him. Spring is joy and wonder and growth.

He’s still light and happiness, the way he always is Virgil assumes, but rather than flowers following in his wake like puppies, its golden light sliding itself along his skin, wrapping itself around whatever part of him it can reach. He glows with light and the heat that sits below his skin the same way ice does his own.

Daylight is all shimmering golds and rosy pinks and creamy off-white. His hair is adorned with his signature crown of flowers, but now it’s made of sunlight itself and shines just as bright as everything else around him. A short cloak dances behind him in a wind that doesn’t exist, it’s graceful shimmering dancing between colors that also don’t exist.

Virgil thinks the aspect almost suits him.

Or it would if it didn’t try to kill him every time he wrangled the sun into place.

The God before him is no Maiden of Spring, but rather the Solar Queen, Ruler of the Noon Sky.

Virgil feels pale in comparison.

The Solar Queen tilts his head to the side, his eyes gleaming with the same not-colors of his cloak. His eyes are far too knowing for Virgil’s tastes, especially when he has no idea what is happening. It takes everything in him not to just bolt right then like he desperately wants to.

Running from his problems is so much easier than facing them.

“My King,” the Queen says, bowing lowly to him, his skirts shifting like a sea of molten gold and, _wow,_ of all thing things Virgil expected to come out of his mouth, that wasn’t one of them.

“I- uh- what?” The smile falls from the Queen’s face and Virgil feels like he’s kicked a puppy and _dammit look what he’s done this time-_

“Oh no! I did it wrong didn’t I?” The Queen worries, “Winter said that it was a customary greeting between monarchs, though I suppose we’re only monarchs in the loosest sense. But we didn’t really know what you’re like. So we guessed formal would be a good start. Was it not? Did I make you uncomfortable? I’m so sorry! Oh, I can’t believe I mucked it up already. Now Summer is going to laugh at me and-”

Virgil blinked in the face of The Queen’s rambling. He was… not what he expected. Not what he remembered.

Though, that _was_ centuries ago and none of them had been of the right mind at the time.

“No, no, no. It’s fine! I was just… surprised.” Virgil pauses before saying _fuck it_ in his head and goes for it. He bows at the waist, copying him as exactly as he could. He’s pretty sure he’s doing it wrong but, _too late now,_ he guesses. “My Queen.”

When he straightens again, the sunshine smile is back and Virgil gives him a half smile in return because he doesn’t have the strength to deny him anything and, _wow,_ again, because where did that thought come from?

“Is that for me?”

Virgil is trying and failing to follow the jump in topics and it must show on his face because he elaborates, albeit shyly.

“The flower? Is that for me?” Virgil’s eyes widen when he realizes that _yes_ he is still holding the flower and _yes_ this is, in fact, the most awkward moment of his life and boy would it be a great time to just jump off the edge of the Court right about now and plummet to the forest below.

Instead of jumping off, (because, while Virgil isn’t positive, he’s fairly certain it would be rude and he doesn’t need _more_ problems in his life, he has _enough,_ thank you very much) he holds the flower out to the Queen. It’s practically drowning in his magic, the flower’s colors are darker than they should be with little bits shimmering out like stars.

Delicately, Daylight takes the bloomed orchid into his hands. Gentle in a way Virgil has never seen anyone behave before, not around him at least.

A small smile tugs on his lips as he looks at him lightly touching the petals with a glowing finger. Then, carefully, he weaves the flower in between the others on his crown.

After a moment, Virgil watches, eyes widened in amazement, as the orchid starts glowing a deep purple before a brilliant gold begins to bleed into it, brighter than the other flowers and shimmering with a life of its own. Then, it dims, becoming solid streaks of sunlight nestled into Day’s hair, just like the rest of his flowers.

Daylight takes in a deep breath as the last of it turns, before releasing it in a puff of sparkling air.

His eyes open and they are a brilliant golden, honey color. “Thank you.”

Numbly, Virgil replies, “My pleasure.” before disappearing in a burst of shadow because he doesn’t know what just happened and if he stands there any longer he’ll explode.

He hopes Daylight doesn’t hate him for leaving without so much as a goodbye.

***

When Time was a young god, not yet fully in control of his powers, not yet wise enough and only just learning kindness, he fell in love.

He was the first god to love a mortal. The first god to love at all.

The name of the mortal has long been lost to time, but it is known that he was a sailor. Born on the sea and bred with salt water in his veins, the Ocean as his first love.

He was nothing special--a nose too big for his face, honey-colored eyes, dark brown hair worn in braids. Nothing that should catch the attention of a god.

But the human was kind. And for Time, who sees cruelty, who _was_ cruelty once upon a time, kindness was enough. The two lived happily for many years. They had a cabin built along the shore, a boat that Time learned to sail on, and a mortal name given by the man who held his heart. A name Time wouldn’t change for as long as he lived.

But kindness is not enough for the Ocean and she eventually claims all who love her too much.

The loss of his first love broke Tau’ma, a god unused to grief, unused to sadness. The earth broke beneath his sobs, the four winds howled along with his cries, the clouds mimicked his tears and flooded the land. Chaos rained upon the earth and no one escaped his suffering, his rage, and his sorrow.

The pain in Tau’ma’s chest grew until he couldn’t handle the pain anymore, he’d rather be empty. He’d rather be gone. He’d rather be _dead._

And so Tau’ma ripped the still-beating heart from his own chest, gold dripping from his hands and a scream tearing from his already raw throat.

Tau’ma stared at the still-beating thing with a broken kind of hatred before throwing it upon the ground.

It shattered upon impact, splintering and scattering across the sand.

Mother Earth--who had been watching Tau'ma, worried and sympathetic--was horrified by what she saw. To rip out one’s own heart is to sentence oneself to emptiness. She couldn’t let him share the same fate as her sister--she had seen how it had broken her--and so she poured her life magic into the pieces. Hoping beyond hope that she could save him.

But her magic was not that of healing, it was life, it was the creation of new things from the broken. So from Tau’ma’s shattered heart, a garden bloomed. New flora and fauna erupted from the pieces, creating new life forever tied to the land.

From the four largest pieces, came the Seasons. Young and new and wide-eyed with knowledge they shouldn’t have. An entirely new creation, an entirely new type of god.

The four gods came into the world with silence. Their faces young and childlike and exact copies of Tau’ma. Their eyes wide as they remembered memories not their own and emotions not theirs.

The pain was sharp and biting and the first thing they felt.

And then came the cacophony of noise and pain. Their harsh broken sobs and choked off screams were heard across the world.

The Seasons were born from the remnants of a broken heart, all shattered pieces and jagged edges. Sharp and barbed and crooked in the most horrible ways.

Winter was curled into the ground hands clawing at his head trying to get rid of the images pounding against his skull. The memories and the sounds and the _sights and smells and, and, and-_ He lacked the feelings that went with the memories but everything was _still so much_. Too many details. Too many _things. It was too much makeitmakeitSTOP!_

(When the onslaught of information settles, Winter will promise to never fall to the emotions that join those memories. He will bury himself in logic and facts, discarding frivolous sentiment in hopes of protecting himself. Because if the sights and sounds are so painful, how could he possibly survive the emotions that go with them?)

(The answer is that he won’t.)

Summer was the only one able to stand, he was bred from fantasy. The might-have-beens and the what-if’s. Summer wasn’t sad. Summer was _angry._ His young-too-old eyes _burned_ with the strength of his wrath. The future was torn from them and he was _furious_. He screamed his anger at the sky and the ground blackened beneath his flames. Volcanoes rose with his fury and cities were bathed in fire.

(Summer buries himself in fantasy and the beds of mortals. He hopes he can find another like his-Time’s- _Summer’s_ first love. He searches for centuries.)

(He eventually stops looking.)

Autumn had curled into himself, making himself as small as possible. The quietest of the four, he hadn’t made a sound besides a whimper when it first came crashing down on him. The area around him had blackened but not with heat. It had merely turned to dust and acid and smoke. He brought death with his grief, with his guilt, with his _fear_. Autumn was terrified and jumped at every noise, flinched at every movement.

(When he’s able to get his wits about him, he will be too scared to let anyone near him like that ever again. He will push others away, snap and bite and claw at everyone to make sure he keeps his heart safe and untouched.)

(He will only succeed for so long.)

Spring was the worst. He was screaming and sobbing and _broken._ His form flickered and jumped and cracked like he wasn’t actually there. Spring was the largest part of Tau'ma’s heart. She’s the feelings of a love lost. She is the happiness, the love, the grief, the loss, the _everything._ Spring is meant to be the creation of new things. Beautiful things. But the things he created that day were grotesque. Twisted and horrible and aggressive. He had built monsters, perfect reflections of the pain in his chest.

The monsters still wander the earth to this day.

(After, Spring will promise to never let himself fall that far from control again. Never feel that helplessly sorrowful. Never again create such horrible things.)

(He will not be able to keep that promise forever.)

Mother Earth was horrified that she had created creatures born from pain and she raced to help them find peace. To dull the pain, but there was little to do about mental and emotional distress. You cannot heal the heart with magic.

No one knows how long it took to calm down the young Manifestations. But eventually, they grew into their positions.

Mother Earth’s plan had worked. Though she regretted the pain she caused that day, she could not bring herself to regret the creation of the new gods, to regret saving Tau'ma's heart; his _soul_. With Tau'ma's heart living on in these new gods and woven into her very soil, Tau'ma could still feel joy and anger and sorrow. He would still be kind and empathetic. He would still be the shining light she knew and loved. And he would stay that way until the earth died. Until she herself shattered and splintered apart.

The Seasons are tied to Tau'ma by life. By emotions and personality and shared pain.

And none of them would have it any other way.

***

The next time Virgil sees Day, it has been months, perhaps even years. The two are busy gods, and to not see another for that long is not unusual, at least for Virgil anyway. A decade is a blink of an eye for gods, merely a heartbeat in the grand scheme of things. But when the two cross paths again, Virgil simultaneously feels as if it has been an age and still not enough time.

Daylight is still there when Virgil arrives one evening, standing next to a pillar, looking out over the mortal realm below. His skirt is singed and his hands are still smoking. He looks bone weary and tired but when he turns to Virgil his face lights up.

As if Virgil is something wonderful.

As if Virgil can make someone happy just by being around.

“Night!” Daylight moves toward the other god before stopping halfway, a blush spreading across his darkened skin. “Oh, or would you… Uh- My King? Or Autumn? I don’t really…” He trailed off, with a nervous laugh. He tucked a length of hair behind his ear before reaching up to fiddle with the lily Virgil had given him that morning nestled in his hair.

“Call me Night,” Virgil said, eyes following the movement of his hand before blinking harshly, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. “If you want to, that is. I’m not saying that you have to or anything! I just- I thought you-”

“I like Night,” he said, cutting into his rambling before it got too out of hand. “I like Autumn too, but I think it fits here.” He waved a hand around the court, a small smile of his face. His smile grew wider, “You could be a _Night_ in shining armor!”

Virgil blinks. Did- did Daylight just make a _pun?_

Daylight stands there, eyes shining with mirth and a wide self-satisfied grin on his face.

Oh, praise the Benevolent, he _did._ The Solar Queen, the God of Daylight, just made a gods awful _pun._

About _him._

Virgil chokes on his laughter, disbelief in his eyes as he raised a hand to cover his mouth. Mirth leaking into his posture as he giggled.

Daylight’s smile grew impossibly wide at the sight.

“That was awful,” Virgil stated when he stopped, hand still over his mouth. “I also wouldn’t call myself the type to wear armor.” He waves his hand at his… everything, as an example.

Daylight wiggles his fingers at him in a way that seemingly negates whatever he said. “That’s fine. Summer likes the Knights more anyway. You though!” Daylight steps forward to close the distance between them. Walking around him, poking and examining his cloak and scarf. Virgil subtly curls in at the attention, trying not to show how uncomfortable he is.

“You remind me of the mortal magicians. Or the druids! They like wearing cloaks too. Too bad Magic already has a claim on the magic folk. I think you’d like them a lot!”

“Thank you? But why would-”

“Oh dear!” Daylight interrupted looking down over the edge of the Court. “Sorry, Night, but I have to go. It’s been wonderful talking with you!” he grabs his hands and all Virgil could think about was how rough and warm they were. “Thank you for the flowers, I’ll see you in the morning!” And with that, he was gone in a flurry of shimmering lights and the Court melted into nighttime.

Virgil stood there for a long moment wondering what had happened before deciding it was best not to question the other gods. He wouldn’t understand their reasoning anyway.

Instead, he decided it was better to just get the night over with. He had a job to do.

***

The Shifting Period.

The time between seasons, lasting a few weeks before the solstice or equinox. The Manifestations use this time to rest and organize. To spend time with their lovers whom they can only see so many times a year.

Summer arrives with heat and fire and love. He overtakes Spring with passion as temperatures rise and Spring gladly passes on the helm with a kiss so tender and loving it makes Summer melt. Giggles and spins and stories pass between the two lighthearted manifestations. Summer wraps himself around Spring, rejuvenating him before filling the world with heat and sunshine and laughter.

When Autumn falls it is with hesitance, with shaking hands and harsh words softened by familiarity. With gentle kisses and clutching embraces. Hushed reassurances that all will be fine, that autumn will come as it must no matter what he does. That everything will be _fine and that you will do amazing, my color. My Tree, my love. I believe in you and all your capable of._

Winter shows up abruptly, walking in late with papers under his arms or early with everything planned for the next three months. There is rarely an in-between stage for the wisest of Manifestations. Autumn shrugs off his power with relief, and winter takes it unceremoniously. Reassurances pass through pale lips and soft touches are traded as Winter ushers Autumn to rest with soft kisses to his head.

Spring returns with love and light. Rosy nicknames and sunny laughter. Flowers grow in his wake and bloom as Spring takes Winter in his hands and melts the frost from his heart and the ice in his gaze. Spring lavishes Winter with hope and color and Winter will never speak of how much he loves these moments but he holds them dearly.

Of course, though, it had not always been this way.

Back in the beginning, when the gods were young and yet to truly find their places in the ranks of the Benevolent, the passing of seasons was a rocky one. Filled with hesitance and sharp turns and volatile weather patterns.

***

“I just don’t understand why you’re so _interested_ in him, Patton. It’s obvious what he thinks of us. He’d rather hang around the _dead.”_

“Perhaps they are quieter company. The Heavens know I would enjoy some.”

Roman huffs from where he was adjusting his adjournments in the mirror, a sour look twisting his features as he looks over his shoulder. “I take personal offense to that.”

“He’s lonely,” Patton says from his place looking out the window, interrupting the squabble before it can begin. The three gods are sitting in one of Logan’s libraries, the one that Patton doesn’t think has an end.

Behind him, Roman scoffs. Patton spins around to look at him. “He _is.”_

“Autumn has made little effort to befriend any of the pantheon as far as I know. If he is lonely why would he not seek companionship?” Logan offers from where he is lounging, scrolls floating around him listlessly as he jumps from one to another.

“I… I don’t know. He’s different than us, it’s like he assumes the worst. Like he’s… scared.”

“Scared? We’ve hardly done anything to _scare_ him.” Roman says, laughing incredulously as the mirror vanishes with a flick of his wrist.

Patton worries his bottom lip, eyes turning to look out the window again. Quietly, he says, “Maybe he was created scared.”

Roman and Logan stop breathing and the air in the room turns stale as it always does when any of them talk about the Creation.

“Patton, that- We don’t know what he-”

“ _Exactly!_ We _don’t know._ ” Patton stands and flowers sprout up from where he’d been sitting. “We act like we know everything about him but we don’t know _anything!_ He’s hiding from us and I want him to know that he’s _safe_ with me. With _us._ ”

Logan and Roman share a look. The one where Patton knows they’re agreeing to humor him but they don’t really _understand._ And-

_Ugh!_

Why is he the only one that cares? Autumn is a piece of them. He’s a Season, they are tied together by fate and life and thousands of other things. Patton just wants all four of them to have cuddle piles and kisses and happiness! Autumn deserves happiness. _Everyone_ deserves happiness.

And Patton _knows_ that he can give it to him. He knows it like he knows how to make flowers grow and push the sun across the sky. Knows it with every fiber of his being, it _burns_ in him. How do the others not know--not _feel_ this certainty?

Roman opens his mouth to placate Patton, to soothe him with empty promises and sweet words.

He doesn’t stay long enough to listen to him.

***

Virgil was one of the four Seasons, a fragment and a god in his own right. He ruled over the Void, he commanded shadows, he brewed the storms that rocked the seas. He ruled the Darkness itself and held it in his hands. The shades of the underworld called him confidant, friend, _brother_ and he returned to them regularly.

It was no secret he was a god of unnatural things. That he didn't neatly fit into the hierarchy of the gods' sacred pantheon.

Most humans believed him to be an unfavorable god. That his temper was like the storms he looked over, his heart as black as night.

Never mind that those were aspects _they_ gave to him. Aspects he never wanted in the first place.

He knows the humans whisper about the monsters that lurk in his darkness. The grotesque creatures Spring created. He knows the humans think that it’s he who made them because of course, it was.

Spring never corrects anyone, so neither does he.

But there were few, the followers he gained that worshipped him, those that loved him more than their own lives, those that had heard the stories whispered in back alleys where the desperate hide and found hope. The few that were wise enough to know that what you do is not necessarily who you are. The few that didn’t believe every story that passed one's lips.

 _They_ knew otherwise.

Virgil housed the lonely, the forgotten, the outcast. He befriended the abused, the suicidal and the grief-stricken. He took in all whom others refused, and he gave them a home and friends and a family. Those who would understand their pain and hardship without looking down on them.

He helped them when others wouldn't. And because of who followed him, he would visit as much as he could. Grant as many prayers as possible.

His head was stuffed with voices, sometimes so many that he couldn’t even hear his own.

Eventually, his followers became known as The Protectors of Meus, a nomadic cult with him as their attentive, patron god. They were a secretive cult, closely holding the identities of all members to their chests in fear of the ridicule they might face. They feared what those who didn’t understand would say about them, how they would react.

And still, they welcomed all newcomers with open arms, as their god would wish them too. They were fiercely loyal to their fellow members and made sure to protect those who needed protecting. They supported each other and were more of a family than most had ever known.

Virgil gazed upon his following and thinks that this might be one of the few things he did right. That he made a home for people so different and so similar to connect and grow and support one another. He looks down on them and feels a burning in his chest, a fierce love unrivaled by any other in the pantheon. And he felt, at the base of his skull, how they loved him equally as much.

For his followers, he would do anything. Even lay the burning earth at their feet if they so asked.

And it was this love, this passion that killed him. It broke and beat him down time and time again.

His cult was a loving one, but it was built on the love for others, by those who don’t know how to love themselves. His cult did not sacrifice, and still, it saw the most death despite that.

They were feared for the trail of burning pyres they left in their wake. Outsiders see it as a warning, but to members, it’s a reminder of sadness and pain.

He has lost so many followers. Felt their final moments like acid at the base of his skull, felt their tears burn down his cheeks and the sting of the knife in his skin.

In the beginning, he’d fall to his knees sobbing and scared and alone. He’d wonder what he did wrong, how he could’ve been better, wishing he’d done more.

But then the pain would fall away, and he’d know it was over, that it was too late. Always too late.

He’d stay on the ground, sobbing and shaking and gasping for breath he didn’t need. He’d stay and mourn for another one lost. Another soul he’d find among the crowds in the land of the dead. Another friend he would make too late.

Now, he carries pain like the armor Summer wears. Wrapped around him as a reminder and protection. The pain is always there, in the back of his mind, screaming and clawing and painful. But he has had many years to get used to the endless pain.

It never stops, but he thinks that he might have contributed to it not being so much. Thinks he might have slowed it down.

At least, that’s what he hopes.

***

The meetings became a pattern.

Every morning and evening they would stay a little later or show up a bit earlier to speak with each other. It was something that Virgil found himself looking forward to. Daylight was the only other god besides Tau'ma, and occasionally Magic, that talked to him without getting upset or angry.

Their interactions couldn’t last long. A few minutes, a half hour if they pushed it. Daylight would greet him with a joke or pun, and they would talk about what was happening in the mortal world. Or, Day would talk. Virgil preferred to listen to him speak, he found it calming.

And it’s not like Virgil had much to say anyway. He didn’t spend much time around the others or in the mortal world. If he wasn’t in the Hall or Court, he preferred the Underworld. Most stayed away, but Virgil liked the peaceful atmosphere. The cozy feeling of the blue fire torches and the glow of the spirits. The giant cavern that echoed and the stones on the ceiling glittering like stars. Stars that Virgil didn’t have to coral.

And the dead made surprisingly good company, though most didn’t seem to think so.

Virgil thinks those people are stupid. He’s found plenty of lost friends in the glowing crowds.

But one evening, when Day was just about to leave, he suddenly stopped and turned back to Virgil. For the past week, the conversations between them had been stilted, what with Virgil having just taken on the mantle of Crowned Season once more.

He had to make sure everything on earth, as well as in the sky, flowed smoothly and was working double time as a result. Working was never something he enjoyed, but the beginning of the season was a particularly painful time for Virgil.

His relationship with Summer had never been good as far as he was concerned. Summer seemed to have this innate dislike for the nebulous god. Seeming to think him unnecessary and overly gloomy. He had even accused Virgil of not being a true Manifestation of Tau'ma's heart in an argument once.

That one had stung more than anything, but Virgil had gotten good at hiding pain. There was screaming in the back of his mind every day, he could handle Summer’s childish jabs.

He was the Protector, not the protected.

Which made his relationship with Summer so much worse. Summer who loathes to even be _near_ Virgil is a part of those few that Virgil must protect. It’s his purpose, the first he was given. He was born a Season, but he was _chosen_ for this. Chosen even as he stood motionless in the garden, paralyzed by the fear and grief.

Summer was a reminder that even those he’s meant to protect, those meant to be _his_ , don’t want him. They don’t trust him and certainly don’t _like_ him.

But the past few months with Daylight had been nice, and Virgil had almost forgotten. Had almost started to _hope_.

But then autumn came, and with it, Summer, and all that hope was shattered like glass, spread out around him in shards and pieces. And Virgil was reminded of where he fits in the pantheon, in the ranks of the Benevolent.

All the way at the bottom, where no one would care if he was there or not.

He had to remember that, even though Day stood there, looking at him with such concern and sadness in his eyes. It wasn’t real, or at least not the way Virgil wanted it to be. Daylight became his friend out of pity or some sense of obligation or just overexposure wore him down eventually.

“Night, I-” Day started. “I know you don’t seem to like us very much-”

Virgil had to hold back a strangled noise he felt crawling up his throat. _He_ didn’t like _them?_

“But I just- I want you to know that we… that _I-”_ Day opens and closes his mouth before making a frustrated noise, unable to find the right words for what he’s trying to say.

“Spring, are you-”

“You always seem so- so _scared_. And I don’t know _why,_ and you don’t have to tell me but I- You have to know that I--that _we--_ care and- and you may not really believe me when I say that but, it’s true. It’s _true_ and I’m not- I don’t really know how to _prove_ it other than…” Daylight takes a deep breath. “Patton.”

Virgil furrows his brows, not understanding what Day is trying to communicate and the brighter god continues. “My name is Patton.”

It happens in an instant. The power settling over him and seeping into his very bones. Wrapping itself around his own magic, into the shadows of his heart and mind, and filling the remaining spaces with light. The warmth floods out from his heart, filling him up in all the empty cracks of his being. Heat seeps into his… everything and it feels like he’s on _fire_. But he is not burning.

Virgil doesn’t think he’s _allowed_ to burn anymore.

“You don’t have to say yours.” Daylight-Spring- _Patton’s_ (Patton. Patton, Patton, _Patton_. His name is _Patton_. He told Virgil his _name_ and its _Patton.)_ words echo within him. They fill him up with warmth and light and happiness and suddenly Virgil has to try very hard in order to not cry.

“I’m not going to force you into anything. I wouldn’t ever think of trying! I just- I want you to know that… I trust you, okay? I trust you even if you can’t trust me.” Patton smiles, wide and hopeful and happy, while Virgil still stands there, dumbfounded and unable to move or speak, before suddenly, he’s gone. Disappeared in a flurry of sunflowers and lilies and light.

And Virgil is left alone in the Court. Unable to fully understand what had just happened. Unable to truly believe that Patton had just given him his Name.

But he did. He did because Virgil can feel the pulse of his magic, can feel the life tied to his now.

Oh, _Earth Mother,_ save him, what has he gotten himself into _now?_


	2. All Hail the Consort of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan sets things he doesn't understand into motion. It's not bad. Probably.

The first time Logan finds himself at the Court of Sky it is almost sunset and he has fought tooth and nail to get there. His hands are bloody and raw, his magic nearly exhausted from him throwing himself at the barrier for hours.

The Court does not like outsiders, but he would be damned before he let Night suffer alone when he could help.

The Court was old, powerful magic. It would take the entire pantheon to smash through its walls with raw power. But Logan was clever.

The thing about old magic is that it cracks. It has seams.

Barely noticable, insignificant things if you don’t know what your looking for.

But if you twist it  _ just so, _ you can make the cracks wide enough for someone to slip through. It’s tiring and you must be quick, but it’s a chance.

And that’s all that Logan needs.

He falls into the Court with a soundless  _ ‘pop’.  _ Not there one moment and then sprawled upon the ground the next.

Not his most graceful landing, but a landing nonetheless. At least he got inside.

“Logan?”

Patton stands before him, clothed in the garb he wears when he plays Queen. All gold and bright light, his trademark flower crown bathed in golden hues and shimmering like the twilight sun.

His arms are still steaming, the skin on his palms knitting themselves back together. The other god looks absolutely  _ wrecked,  _ and  _ wow _ , no wonder Autumn has been so protective of him as of late. Logan would be too if he saw him like this after every day.

He knew it was bad, but he’d never seen Patton so soon after the sunset.

But one problem at a time. He’ll lecture Patton on proper self care and asking other for help later. He’s here to yell at a different idiotic god who doesn’t know when to ask for help.

“Salutations. I seem to be early.”

“Logan, what are you  _ doing _ here?” Patton rushes forward to help the fallen god to his feet. “How did you even  _ get  _ here?”

“Came in the through the door.” Patton snorts, Logan moves to stand on his own to feet only to nearly fall once again. Patton makes a worried noise as he grabs at him again. “I seem to have used a bit more strength than I originally anticipated. A bit worrying but unavoidable at the moment. I’ll have to find a way around that next time.”

“Next time? Logan, what do you mean ‘next time’?” Patton hauls him over to the ornately decorated, golden throne placed in the middle of the court. The metal is pleasantly warm when he leans into it. “Why are you here in the first place? You could’ve gotten yourself  _ killed _ .”

Logan waves his hand non committedly, his eyelids feel heavier than they should. “An unlikely outcome.”

_ “Logan.”  _ Patton’s voice takes a hard edge, sharp and cool like a blade.

“I’m here to help, Night.”

_ “Help.” _ Patton sounds strangled. “You can barely stand! How are you going to help like this?” He’s acting like how he does when Roman does something overly stupid--which Logan takes great offence to, he’ll have you know.

“Night is being ridiculous and irrational and I intend to do something about it. You can’t help because you can’t control both Night  _ and _ Day, he doesn’t trust Roman enough, and Thomas is busy making sure the universe doesn’t fracture.  _ I can help. _ ”

“Logan you-” Patton looks at him with frustration. “Argh! I hate when you’re right, but-”

“I’m always right.”

“Of course you are darling--but you can’t help him when you can barely stand. What are you planning on doing?”

Logan hesitated, “I had planned on talking to him.”

“You think I haven’t tried?”

“Well, perhaps he would-”

“Logan, he’s not going to just  _ listen _ to you. It’s not how he  _ works. _ ” Patton looks behind him at where the sun is almost done setting. “We don’t have  _ time. _ He’s going to be here soon.” Patton huffs, thinks for a moment before seemingly deciding on something. “I’m going to do something, okay? I don’t know what you’ll do with it but I’m sure you can use that big brain of yours to think of something. Just… help him. Okay?”

“Of course. It’s why I’m here.”

Patton gives him a wide, dopey smile filled with hope and something else before leaning into kiss him hard. It’s unlike the kisses they normally share, with Patton licking his way into his mouth, forcing his way into his space, and  _ oh. _ He understands what’s happening now.

Warmth fills his body like the heat of a summer day, he can smell daisies on a breeze that isn’t actually there, joy bubbles up in his chest and stays there, making him feel light and airy. Logan feels more alert and awake now, his magic rising to meet Patton’s, twisting around each other and all to soon Patton pulls away, leaving his magic nestled safely inside Logan’s chest.

Patton gives him a tired but hopeful look before disappearing in a flurry of pink carnations, and the court slowly melts into the Night.

Logan doesn’t sit for long, he has a job to do. So he stands up and brushes his robes into a more distinguished manner before moving into the middle of the room.

There is a raised circle that glows a faint blue. Logan steps on top of it and nothing happens. He waits a few ticks before growing impatient. He taps his foot twice, letting a sliver of magic curl into the motion and suddenly the stars are brighter than he has ever seen them. They take up his entire vision and he almost becomes overwhelmed by the sight of it.

He takes a second to breathe, to wrangle his magic back into place. He settles the frayed edges into a more ordered pattern, calming down so he can look at this logically.

He gazes at the stars, looking for a reason why he was shown this.

Then he notices it.

That star, it’s out of place. He has thousands of constellation charts and star maps, he knows the night sky by heart.

Reaching out his hand, he moves it back into place. Nudges it into its’ correct spot.

He looks through the sky, find more and more mistakes. He moves them all back, gentle and reverent. Leaves them with a bit of magic asking them to stay. He corralls the more adventurous ones, pins them in place when they refuse to listen.

He’s so focused on the stars and keeping them where they’re supposed to be that he doesn’t notice Night has appeared until he speaks.

“Winter? What are you doing here? How did you  _ get  _ here?” Night demands, his eyes distrustful and tone dark and cold.

Logan turns around, his eyes still glowing with starfire.

Night is as pale as Patton is tan and cloaked in royal garb, all dark purples and silver. A scarf that holds the galaxy itself within the fabric, wrapped tightly around his throat, waving behind him in the nonexistent wind. A silver circlet placed upon his dark auburn head, glowing softly with moonlight.

His entire demeanor is shuttered closed, the god drawn in on himself. Whips of shadow lick at his feet, blurring the edges of his form, as if he’s unconsciously trying to get out of this situation. The bruises under his eyes get darker with his supposed unhappiness, and he looks so tired.

He can address that concern later, Logan has other problems to focus on right now.

“You know, that is a question I am finding myself asked a lot, as of late.”

“Answer the question,” he near growls.

“I’m fixing the stars.”

“You’re…  _ what? _ Why?”

“Because you are tired. Patton is worried, which means I am worried.”

Understanding blooms across his face, a hint of sadness to it too. “You’re worried about Patton.”

That’s not what Logan said, it’s an odd twist of phrase. A jump in logic. Logan supposes there  _ is _ evidence to back up his claim. Patton is Logan’s romantic interest and it would make sense that he’d be here for him. But the way Night said it, it’s like it was the only conclusion to come to. That no one would think of helping him and oh no Logan understands what Patton means when he says Night works differently.

He doesn’t think he’s worth it. Or that there’s more important things to worry about.

Or maybe he’s scared. Logan remembers Patton saying something like that once.

Oh dear, this is going to be harder than he anticipated.

“Well, you don’t need to help me because he told you to. I can handle myself.” Night doesn’t speak like he believes it. He speaks in a way that’s meant to convey he doesn’t want charity or pity.

“I’m not here because I’m worried about Patton. I’m worried about you. Patton merely brought your troubles to my attention.” Logan’s voice is even and light, easy to read with no deception hidden in its words.

Night stands there in silence, unsure of what to say. Logan eventually turns back to the stars, moving and prodding and fixing.

They don’t talk for the rest of the night.


	3. Roman's Daughters

Roman has many sons. Much too many for anyone to keep track of.

He only ever has nine daughters.

***

His first is before he understands the love spring brings, the comfort of winter and the laughter of autumn leaves. It’s before he understands new love.

He is young and reckless. Heartbroken for a time he did not exist and a person he did not love, but he searches all the same for someone like  _ him. _

Someone like the memories he holds, the future he dreamed of.

He finds a woman with wit like a whip and laughter like the sun. She is the rich earth and the golden sun. Her wrists sparkle with the finer things and she worries not for the simple ones. She is mischievous in all the best ways and Roman falls for her. It’s not the same love as before he doesn’t think, but she makes him happy and that’s all that matters to him right then.

She bites kisses up his neck as he laughs and he leaves bruises on her hips as she plans pranks and jokes in that clever little mind of hers.

All is great. Until it isn’t.

Her father finds out. Locks her in a room to starve for her disobedience. Better her dead than carry a child out of wedlock.

Roman hadn’t known they were a secret. Hadn’t know he was supposed to hide.

When he finds out it’s too late.

He breaks down the doors, her father cooling on the floor behind him and her pale and weak in his arms. Her belly is swollen in a way that means one thing and he doesn’t know what to do. She’s dying in his arms and his child may never seen the light of day and he is sobbing.

His throat feels tight but he calls for Dahlia, for Mother Earth. Thinks that maybe the goddess of life can help him.

She comes in a flurry of spring breezes and sweet smelling things. The moment she rests her eyes on him he knows his precious Nadia won’t make it.

“Please,” he begs. “Save the child.”

It is bloody, and Nadia dies halfway through. Roman kisses her forehead. A final goodbye for his ray of sunshine in the darkness.

Dahlia hands over a screaming babe. She is warm and light and more beautiful than he could have imagined. She has her mother’s rich dark skin and curly hair, her eyes glowing amber in the dimness of the room. He loves her fiercely, and never wants to give her up.

“What is her name?” the Earth Mother asks, her voice quiet in the stillness of the moment.

“I’ll name her Thalia.” Roman looks at the Earth Mother, his voice sure, but his eyes less so.

She smiles at him. “That is a good name.”

Roman looks back at his daughter and can’t help but smile.

Thalia grows with beauty and grace and charm. She’s a handful in the worst way, running off and playing tricks. Her humor is all encompassing and she brings joy wherever she finds herself next. She reminds him so much of Nadia it hurts sometimes. The way she’ll cock her hip after telling a joke, or push her hair behind her ear when feigning innocence is a perfect copy of the mother she never got the chance to know.

***

He is older, but no less reckless and twice as arrogant.

He dances with the mortals on the night of the Autumnal equinox when he should be at Court greeting the arriving Season. Instead he finds himself on the bank of a river, bedding a wood nymph with hair like fire and a voice like bells.

Months later, when summer begins to set in once more, the fiery haired wood nymph finds him and thrusts a squalling bundle of warmth in his arms.

He stares up at her confused and stricken, cradling the child close to his chest.

“A daughter of fire and heat has no place among the trees. Her name is Euterpe.” And then she is gone.

This one has his light skin and the fiery red of the flames her mother danced with. Freckles dot her cheeks and shoulders and Roman has no idea what to do with this child. Thalia grew to womanhood via trial and error and hope. And Summer is right around the corner, he cannot rear a child right now.

He finds himself at Thalia’s door, her home brightly lit and cheerful. When she opens the door she merely rolls her eyes and opens her arms. Roman practically sags with relief, he kisses her forehead and promises to visit often.

“Of course, Father. You owe me a barrel of honey for this, though.”

“What on  _ earth  _ would you need honey for?”

His eldest daughter grins, wide and mischievous and a tad bit cruel. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Roman leaves before he can become an accomplice to whatever Thalia has planned.

***

He makes a mistake on the third. The sweetest mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.

He falls in love with the spartan prince. He falls for his beauty and laughter and wide, pretty eyes. He falls for a heart as full as his own. For a mind that dreams the way he does and  _ understands.  _ For a swordsman who’s skill and grace with the blade rivals his own.

Roman loves him with his whole being for a year. A  _ wonderful _ year filled with love and light and happiness.

And then Roman loses him. His precious Hyacinth falls to the jealousy of another god, and he is killed in front of his eyes.

Roman remembers little more than fire and screaming before he shows up at his daughter’s house, their faces creased with worry when they look at him. He knows he is a mess, pale and dirty and crying.

_ Gods _ , he’s crying so much. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop.

His daughters, his beautiful, wonderful, understanding daughters pull him in without a word.

They sit on the floor for hours, days, weeks. Roman doesn’t know.

He only gets up when there is a knock on the door. Thalia stiffens, and moves to answer it, but he stops her. He knows who is there, but he doesn’t know why.

When he opens the door he finds a woman with golden blonde hair and dark olive skin. The child on her hip is a carbon copy for all except her eyes. Those were Hyacinth’s eyes.

“You’re Roman.” It’s not a question so he doesn’t answer. She continues, “I am-  _ was _ Hyacinth’s wife.”

Roman flinches minutely at the use of past tense. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“And I, yours.” Her eyes glow bright with unshed tears and she looks less put together than a Princess should be, but her eyes are understanding. She holds no anger or jealousy in their depths and Roman thinks he would’ve liked her very much so in another life.

“This is my daughter, Calliope. I have been ordered to kill her. I cannot-” She swallows. “She is my everything.  _ Please.” _

The girl cannot be more than three summers old. But a royal bloodline cannot be muddied with a bastard child.

Roman opens his arms to receive the girl. “She has a home here.”

The woman sags with relief and presses a kiss to Calliope’s forehead for a long moment before handing her over.

He spends as much time as he can with his daughters for the next few years, leaving only for summertime and his godly duties.

He watches Calliope grow and write and learn. She fills her head with too many books and ideas that she must write them down to get them all out. She demands to be left alone for hours on end so she can write without interruption.

When she stops growing, Thalia suggests asking Time to make an exception with this one. Roman runs off the second she’s finished speaking and returns only when he carries the sweetened ambrosia that will make her immortal.

She is not of his blood but she is his all the same. He had been dreading having to watch her age and die. It seems her sisters had been too.

The house becomes filled with singing and laughter and thousands of half written scrolls and books.

Roman doesn’t think there’s a better place in the world.

***

Patton brings him his fourth. He comes to him covered in dirt and holding a too quiet child in his arms. He’s frantic and tense, his eyes darting around the undergrowth as if waiting for something to jump at him.

Roman goes to him immediately.

“My love, what’s wrong?”

Patton’s eyes meet his and there are so many emotions in those depths but Roman sees anger and worry the most. “I had too. Her name is Terpsichore and they- they were-” Patton stops, his face hardened with an anger Roman had never seen from him before. He looks furious and Roman doesn’t want to know what made him so angry, but with the bruises around the girl’s wrists and the tear tracks down her cheeks, Roman can guess.

His stomach rolls at the thought.

“I took her. Roman, I  _ had  _ too. Her  _ mother _ , they-” Patton’s voice hitches and he stops talking.

Roman looks at the child. Her skin is darkened gray and her hair pale silver. Sharp teeth fill her mouth and he can’t see her eyes but he can take a guess at the color. 

This is not the child of a human union, and he knows how the mortals fear what they do not understand. Knows that the gods may not fear, but they ignore and shun. This child won’t fit in. Won’t have any place were she can be herself.

His gaze returns to Patton’s. “What do you need.”

Patton sags with relief, the bleeding heart. “She is yours.”

Roman’s eyes widen. “I- what?”

“Raise her. Please. I don’t know who else to ask.”

“I am no father.”

Patton gives him a look like he thinks he’s exceedingly dim, and wow, he normally only gets that look from Logan. “Your daughters are wonderful and strong. I know you will raise her with love.” Patton passes Terpsichore into Roman’s arms and she immediately snuggles into his warmth, her face looking less pinched as he holds her close.

“You could raise her with more love than I.” It’s a token protest and they both know it. Roman is staring down at this child who hails from hell but will grow in the heavens and he already adores her.

Patton leaves him and Terpsichore with matching kisses on their foreheads and flowers in their hair.

Despite giving the care of Terpsichore over to Roman, Patton becomes as much of her father as he is,visiting whenever he can. Terpsichore follows in his footsteps as a wonderful dancer and she exudes a certain grace that neither of her fathers poses. Her nimble fingers weave flowers into her hair every day, and her and Patton look nothing alike but it is obvious she is her father’s daughter.

She finds herself at festivals and celebrations, dancing so beautifully that people forget the way her eyes absorb all color and her smile’s a bit too sharp. She prefers dancing to Euterpe’s songs though.

She is strange and bright and wonderful and she grows up in a place of light where people love her with all their hearts. 

***

The fifth daughter is planned rather than chance. But she is not planned by him.

“Your daughter’s are growing into fine young women.”

Magic startles him so badly that he nearly impales himself on his sword. He turns around to face them, eyes wide and confused already.

“Uh… thank you?”

Magic studies him for a moment before their slitted cat-like eyes light up and a smile graces their lips. “You do not know,” The air around her sparks, “Interesting.”

Roman doesn’t know what’s so interesting about his daughters other than they are his whole world, but he doesn’t think Magic means it like that.

“I would like your consent on siring a child of my blood.”

Roman almost chokes. Magic has never been a- He never would have thought… Magic just existed. They had no set gender, no true form even. They were all and everything. To think they’d want to bear a child? It was a thought that had never crossed his mind.

“You want- I don’t-  _ what?  _ You want to- to-”  _ Heavens _ , he can’t even  _ say  _ it. Magic is a wonderful person, don’t get him wrong. They are shy and timid but snarky and fun. Not the most threatening combination but when you add the power that they have at their beck and call you find they are not someone you’d want to cross.

Roman doesn’t understand how he got to be here, he just wanted to practice his sword skills.

Magic laughs at him. “You misunderstand. I do not wish for a daughter, I wish for a protege. Yours are growing finely and will be important one day. I want to have a daughter of magic among them.”

“But that still means…” Roman waves his hand, his ears pink.

“Roman, I am Magic itself. I can certainly create a child through unique means. I just need your permission for it to work.”

“Oh. Uh, sure. Yeah. Babies, yay!” he says weakly. Magic looks both amused and disinterested at the same time. They place their hand on his chest and  _ yanks. _ Roman cries out and when he opens his eyes again--when had he closed them?-- he sees Magic holding a flickering, crimson red ball of light no bigger than an acorn.

“What is that?”

“Your essence. But only a part.” Their eyes flick to his. “The girl will be brought to you when she is ready.” And with that, they are gone.

It is a year later when a cradle appears from nowhere in the middle of the living room. His daughters eye it with curiosity but allow him to approach it first.

Inside is a little girl, merely a few weeks old, swaddled in a blanket made from woven wind. The child’s eyes are bright green, the pupils cat-like and all knowing. She stares at him as if she keeps the secrets of the universe safely tucked away inside her head. The fuzz utop her head is brown at first glance, but if she moves it just so it explodes into a million colors that shouldn’t exist.

There is a note placed next to her. Roman tucks the girl into the crook of his arm before reading it. 

_ When she comes of age send her to me. She will have questions I can answer. _

_ Her name is Clio. _

When he looks back at his daughters, scattered around the room he finds varying levels of exasperation and curiosity.

“It’s too small,” Thalia pipes up, “Send it back.”

Terpsichore smacks her on the back the head and steps forward to hold her new little sister. His girls fall for her just as he knew they would, just as he knew he would.

Clio grows with her head in stuffed in between the pages of her books, with wit that cracks like a whip and is no less painful. She’s smart, maybe too smart, as she finds herself in the middle of at least five academic debates at any one time. At least three of them are because of Joan.

She learns to wield magic like breathing and Roman wholeheartedly believes that if she had the ambition she could take over the world with it. Instead she creates pocket dimensions to keep her growing collection of books.

***

Him and Logan are on the beach, enjoying each other’s company in a way they rarely get to. The waves lap at them when they roll to close to the sea. The smell of salt water and sweat filling the air as they scream and moan and touch.

When they finish they fall asleep on the sand, curled into each other and content with the world. The waves lap at their feet until the sunrises.

When Roman opens his eyes he finds himself looking not into the eyes of his lover, but that of a child. Her eyes big and curious and the seafoam green of clear waters. She looks at him with wonder and he stares back in confusion and mild fear.

He hits Logan on the arm to wake him up. He is not handling this alone.

“Uh, hello. Good morning,” he starts. A hello is a good start, he thinks. He doesn’t want to spook this child.

“Good morning!” she says brightly, her smile is wide and she’s missing a few teeth. “I’m Urania!”

“Nice to meet you, Urania. Where’d you come from?” Roman asks because he honestly doesn’t know how she got here. No one lives around here for miles.

“I came from the sea.”

“The sea.” Logan repeats, moving to sit up and  _ wow, _ is Roman glad they redressed before falling asleep. “Where are your parents?” Logan asks.

She looks at him like he said something funny and kinda confusing. “You’re right here, silly.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The sea gave me life as a gift to you, in exchange for something She took a long time ago.” She speaks as if she’s repeating words someone else said. “Look!” she lunges for Roman’s arm and holds her own up to it. “We’re the same.”

They are indeed matching shades of bronze. And she has Logan’s ears, long, awkward things that stick out from under her short, brown-black hair. She looks like them, a perfect combination filled with childhood wonder and innocence.

Roman looks at Logan over her head and sees him shrug. Roman sighs and begins making plans in his head for a new room in his ever growing home.

Urania is, without a doubt, Logan’s daughter. She adores the stars and spends hours gazing at them with a wonder that never fades from her eyes. Logan patiently teaches her the names of each one, tells her the stories of the constellations and the planets that move around them.

***

For awhile, the world is quiet. His daughters are all fully grown with their names recognized by many.

And then there is a war.

The Malevolent rise up and try to take the godly realm by force. They beat down their barriers and throw the world into chaos. He tries to shelter his daughters from the battles as best he can, but they are children of the God of War. The fight is in their blood, and they make their way to the frontlines anyway.

The entire time he is tense and worried, trying to keep an eye on all six of them as they make their way through the enemy. Carving a path of death and leaving only destruction is their wake. He is proud of the way they fight as a unit, playing off each others strengths and moving on to the next target before the last one knows they’re dead.

He’s so focused on his daughters and staying alive he almost misses it. The shrill cry of a woman a little ways off the path.

Roman whistles once to let anyone nearby know he’s fine before he rushes into the underbrush towards the sounds of screams.

He stumbles through the bushes a second to late. He sees the blow headed toward the woman’s stomach, watches as the sword slides through her like butter.

The woman falls and Roman charges the Malevolent who would so cruelly take an innocent life. 

The second it’s safe he falls to his knees next to the woman. He recognizes her as one of the heavenly attendants. He’s passed by her many times and he remembers how kind she was.

And now, his hands hover over her bloody torso, unsure in what to do or how to help. She’s still breathing but just barely.

Her head lolls to look at him. “My- my daughter,” she forces out through stuttering breaths. “My Mel- Melpomene. She’ll be alone- I-  _ Please- _ Help her. She is- hiding. Please.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll keep her safe. She’ll be safe.” The mother is gone before he finishes speaking.

He finds the girl hiding in the thicket a few yards outside the clearing. She’s shaking, her eye big and liquid when she looks up at him.

“You’re mother sent me. You’re safe now. It’s okay.” He reaches out his hand slowly, palm up so not to spook her. But it doesn’t seem a problem because she just looks at him, blinks once, and then throws herself sobbing into his arms.

She can’t be any older than two summers but she understands something horrible happened.

Roman carries her back to the safe point, careful to stay well away from the battlefield. She doesn’t ask after her mother and where she is. Roman is glad she doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he’d tell her.

Thalia is the first he finds at the camp. She takes one look at the shaking, little girl in his arms and knows immediately, what has happened.

Thousands of emotions flash across her face in the span of a second before she settles on cheerful. Her go to, to mask the pain.

She scoops the little girl out of his arms and begins talking her ear off. She starts telling stories and tales that are half lie and a quarter exaggeration but just the right amount of ridiculous. In a few minutes she has Melpomene smiling and half the camp laughing so hard they cry. A ray of sunshine in the darkness.

From that day on, Thalia and Melpomene are rarely ever seen apart. They are two halves of a whole. The light and dark sides of the same coin.

She is the quietest of his daughters, the most solemn at times and the harsh realist in a group of dreamers. But he loves her with the simple fierceness he loves all of them with. 

The house is filled with art and singing and laughter. It’s rarely quiet, never still and writers and musicians come from all over the world to just speak with his daughters. Roman thinks he understands what Magic was talking about all those years ago when she said his daughters will become something amazing.

***

He and Valerie are walking through one of the more beautiful mortal gardens when she asks.

He doesn’t understand what she means until she turns bright red and waves her hands in front of her,  _ “Oh just ignore me. I don’t know why I said that it must be the heat getting to me oh dear-” _

“You want to be the mother of a daughter of mine?” He and Valerie had been friends for centuries, The Goddess of Love and the God of Romance too similar to be anything else.

“The whole pantheon wants to bear a daughter of yours,” Valerie says it like its common sense. “They’re beloved by all. Everyone wants to call at least one of them their own.”

This is news to Roman. He knew that his daughters were adored and loved but he hadn’t know that many were envious.

“You want to bear my child because… why? Power? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“What? No!” she says appalled. “A child born from the two of us can only have an affinity for love. I think the humans need someone to bring them a little more love right now.” She looks off into the far distance, as if she can see the atrocities being committed right now. Perhaps she can, the humans don’t seem to have much Mercy these days.

He consents, and they lay together.

It’s is awkward, bedding such a treasured friend but the two are close and end up laughing by the end. Their friendship not stronger, but still just as intact as it was before.

He’s by her side for the entirety of the pregnancy, unlike with his other daughters. He gets to feel her kick and move around and he thinks it’s magical.

They name her Erato and Roman knows that when she’s grown she’ll look like exactly like her mother but with broader shoulders and lighter eyes.

She turns out almost exactly like Valerie expected. Her heart is as big as the sun and she loves love. There’s always this faraway look in her eye and she leaves a string of broken hearts behind her. She is beauty and grace and a softness her sisters lack.

She sings about romance and family, writes about epic trials and true love’s kiss. Her poetry never fails to pull heartstrings and Joan finds another daughter of his that they like, though Erato is a stickler for happy endings that Joan will pull their hair out over.

***

Virgil bursts into the Hall of Seasons, still dressed as the King of Sky. He looks frantic and like he doesn’t know what to do.

In his arms is a child, a little girl who clutches at him like he’s her life line and Roman already knows what’s happening before he speaks.

“She fell from the sky. I- Logan said to come to you.”

The girl is pale, and she is thin, remarkably so. Her hair and eyes are matching shades of silver and she glows faintly. Roman thinks she might be a fallen star.

Before he can say anything, the girl speaks in a voice that echoes as if there is more than one person speaking through her, “You have been given daughters from the earth, sea and sky. Blessed to share a child with each of your dearest lovers. I am the last daughter you will have. I am the last gift to you.”

And okay. That is a mildly terrifying statement coming from a toddler, but that’s fine. He has eight other daughters. He can handle scary children.

Virgil on the other hand looks as pale as the child in his arms. Roman places his hand on his cheek.

“She’s mine too?” he breathes, looking down at the girl. She stares back up at him with curiosity and love. Virgil melts.

“Yeah," Roman kisses both their foreheads. "She is.”

They name her Polyhymnia and she grows with a voice like honey. It’s deeper and calmer than Euterpe’s and when they sing together Roman’s heart fills with joy.

Virgil spends every spare second he has around her, as if expecting her to suddenly disappear. He so obviously loves her with everything he has, Roman wonders how he contains it all in his chest.

Virgil doesn’t sing often, but when he does it’s only because Polyhymnia asked him too. When they sing together it’s like the night, calm and smooth and quiet. They are lullabies and darkness and the sweetest words.

Polyhymnia grows and then stops. Just before womanhood, grows into a not-quite-adult and stops.

“Children have more faith and belief,” she tells him one day. Roman nods as if he understands even though he doesn’t quite get what she says. He stopped trying to follow everything his daughters say. Especially Clio. Almost everything she says goes over his head.

Polyhymnia forever stays the youngest, the child. She doesn't mind though. She just keeps singing and laughing with her sisters.

***

Roman only ever has nine daughters.

Thalia, Euterpe, Calliope, Terpsichore, Clio, Urania, Melpomene, Erato and Polyhymnia.

They’re purpose, to inspire and create. To reign over the arts and sciences. To protect all knowledge and creativity.

Comedy, song, written epics, dance, history, astronomy, tragedy, love poetry and hymns.

They are known as the Muses.


	4. Ease My Pain and Soothe My Worries

Virgil didn’t know why he was even worrying so much. It had been centuries since they’ve settled. Since Virgil had shared his human name with the other seasons, since they shared theirs with him.

Since they’ve been  _ happy _ .

And as Patton reminded him near every day, they all loved him.

So why he was making a big deal out of nothing is beyond him. He always seems to get caught up in his own head. Lost in the mess of swirling ‘what ifs’ and jumbled ‘maybes.’

It’s frustrating that he can’t just let himself be happy. Can’t let himself  _ have this _ . Because it’s too good. Everything is too amazing and wonderful and bright that it has to be fake, right?

When Logan finally arrives at the Hall, Virgil has taken to pacing and muttering under his breath. He feels twitchy and like there’s too much energy stored in him, like he needs to keep moving and hold himself still at the same time and it’s _ driving him nuts. _

Logan moves to place his folders of paper on the desk that hadn’t been there before he got here. He looks worried and for a moment Virgil wonders why before he realizes  _ oh, it’s me. _

“Virgil?”

He still hasn’t stopped pacing and he probably looks guilty as fuck or like he’s about to have panic attack or something else equally embarrassing. He forces himself to stop moving. Of course that means he’s stopped himself a good couple feet from Logan which is awkward and strange.

Logan looks even more concerned now.  _ Good job, Virgil. _

“Is something wrong? Has something happened during autumn? Are you alright?” He approaches slowly, giving Virgil time to back away and he damn near melts at his thoughtfulness. Logan had always understood his needs even when he himself hadn’t. He knew that sometimes it's best if Virgil wasn’t touched or that he needed hard facts over heartfelt reassurances.

It was why he loved him so dearly.

Virgil opened his mouth to say he was fine. To smile and laugh his strange behaviour away. To greet Logan and shift his attention elsewhere so he wouldn’t ask again.

Instead, his voice began to rise in his throat like shadows and thunderstorms. Building on the tip of his tongue like a wave and Virgil knew instinctively that if he let it crest something bad would happen. He slammed his mouth shut so fast he skimmed his tongue with his pointed teeth, the taste of copper and gold flooding his mouth.

Suddenly Logan was in front of him, hands on his shoulders and looking him in the eye. “Virgil? Please answer me?”

_ “I’m fine.” _ Virgil’s voice is layered over itself in a way it hasn’t been in centuries. His booming voice echoes inside his head rather than the walls around him and Virgil instantly feels bad when he sees Logan’s pointed ears flatten as if to block out the noise.

Virgil snaps his mouth shut and curls into himself more, pulling his shoulders up to his ears and wrapping his arms around himself as if to keep all the bad things beneath his skin. He chokes back the words that threaten to rise up and buries them deep in his chest.

“You are most definitely not  _ fine _ ,” Logan says calmly, his voice steady and smooth. His eyes are more alarmed. “Come sit down.”

Logan ushers Virgil onto a loveseat covered in pillows that wasn’t there a moment ago. Immediately, Virgil grabs one of the fluffiest pillows and hugs it to his chest, burying his mouth in the soft fabric.

“Hey,” Logan lightly brushes his hand to get his attention. “Look at me okay? I’m here, feel the pillow.” Logan brushes him hand along the fabric, urging Virgil to do the same. “It’s soft, yeah? Or my hand. I’m solid. You can feel me. I’m here. I’m right here.

“You need to breathe, alright? Follow my lead yes? In, two, three, four, five. Hold, two, three. Out, two, three, four, five, six. Again. Come on.”

In, out. In, and out. In, and out.

Slowly.  _ Slowly _ , Virgil began to calm. His hands continuously running over the pillow, back and forth, back and forth.

Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes. One, two, three more breaths and he opened them again to find Logan staring back at him. Patience and concern etched into every line of his body.

“I’m-” Virgil croaked, his throat closed off and hoarse. Better than the layered, darkness forever, voice from hell he supposed. He cleared his throat to try again, “I’m good. I’m good now.” Logan gave him one of his patented looks, ‘bitch face #3’. Reserved for Virgil and his bullshit. “ _ Promise _ .”

Logan merely hummed in response, gathering him up in his arms. The pair sat there for what seemed like hours, Virgil curled up to Logan’s side, listening to him talk about everything and nothing. White noise words that meant little but did the job they were meant to. Eventually, the knot in his stomach loosened and the tension bled from his shoulders.

“The boy at the head of the warfront--you know, the one that’s blessed--his lover was killed in battle a few days ago you know. The carnage he’s wrecking on the opposing army in his grief is massive. I believe just yesterday he fought a river because the sprite looked at him wrong. The other gods are getting a bit worried about him.” Logan hesitated. “A bit like how I’m worried about you right now.” 

Virgil looked up at him, apologetic.

“What happened, love? What made you so upset?”

“It…” Virgil looked away, “It was stupid. Nothing important.”

“Anything that matters to you is important.”

Virgil shrugs.

“Virgil, please.”

“I just- I got caught up in my own head again. I know it’s stupid but-” Logan pinches his arm. “Ow!” Virgil glares at him but corrects himself anyway. “I know it is  _ irrational _ , but sometimes it’s hard to believe. All of this,” he waves a hand around him vaguely, trying to encompass too many things with a too little gesture, “just seems unreal sometimes. Like I made it up and soon everything will go back.”

Virgil turns his gaze to the far wall, as if seeing something that isn’t there. “I think I’m going to lose you,” he says it so quietly that if Logan were anyone else, he would have missed it.

But he isn’t everyone else, and instead his entire being softens in a way it only does with his fellow manifestations. “Oh, Virgil. I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with us for a very long time.”

Virgil huffs a sound that might’ve been a laugh, were it not so weak and filled with sorrow.

“Is there… something else?”

“No!  _ No, _ it’s just,” Virgil sigh in frustration, pushing away from Logan so he can stand. “I was talking to Patton. And- And he didn’t  _ mean  _ anything by it, because of course he didn’t--it’s  _ Patton.  _ But I just- He said that you do,  _ things _ with him that you don’t with me. And it’s not- I shouldn’t be jealous or- or angry because those are  _ useless, negative  _ emotions. And it’s not like- You just- You treat him differently. Than you do me, that is.”

Logan looks at him for a few heartbreaking moments before slowly rising from the couch but he doesn’t move closer to Virgil. Not yet.

He speaks slowly, choosing his words with care. “Well… Patton is different than you. He thrives on emotions and action based displays. While you,” Logan raises a hand for Virgil to take and after a moment he does. He raises the appendage to his lips, lightly pressing a kiss to the inner wrist. “My Moon and Stars, are more inclined to words and assurances. Never mind that physical affection other than touches or chaste kisses have never really been apart of our dynamic. I’m aware you and Roman engage every so often, but I have little interest in it. I do it to make the others happy, and you had never seemed to need the extra mile.”

“You don’t need to do something you don’t want to for us, Logan.” Virgil states. Because Logan needs to know this. Needs to know that he shouldn’t and doesn’t have to do anything he’s not comfortable with.

To Virgil’s surprise, he huffs a laugh. “Of course not. It’s not like that. Physical relations are fine, but it’s an activity than can be replaced with something else, like reading, or puzzles. I don’t dislike it, but it’s not my favorite pass time either.”

“Oh… well. Thank you.”

“Of course.” After a moment of silence Logan continues, Virgil's hands still cradled in his. Logan sweeping his thumb across Virgil's knuckles. “Do you wish to bring our relationship to a more physical level?”

“Not really. I like hugs though.”

Logan nods as if expecting the declaration, and opens his arms. They stand in each other’s embrace for a long while, just breathing each other in. Taking what little reprieve they have before winter sets in and Virgil has to wait another year to see him again.

But he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he knows more now. He’s known that they love him for years, but now he thinks he might be a little closer to believing it.

Sure they’ll be time where he worries and second guesses, but when doesn’t he?

He can let himself have this. This wonderful happiness because maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn’t. But they chose him. And he’ll be damned if he wouldn’t give them Chaos herself if they asked for her.

He could never deny them anything.


	5. The Gods are Dead

The gods are dead.

The only constant is change. Civilizations rise and fall like waves. People grow and die. The land itself shifts to and fro. Things that were once truths become fairytales, and those that were once legends become myths.

The gods walk among the mortals who once worshiped them.

The gods are dead, but they are never  _ gone. _

***

Virgil doesn’t fear death.

For as many things he was scared of, death hadn’t been one of them. At least not for himself anyway.

He was the one who ushered the world into decay so that it could be reborn again. He walked among the dead and spoke to them like old friends. He controlled the shadows that so many feared. He befriend those no one else would because they were different.

What he had feared was the mistakes he made. The responsibility placed on his shoulders as a Manifestation, as a God of Many Things, as the Protector of the Precious.

He was tired, and so he let his power fall through his hands like water, and he let himself be forgotten. Swept away by the sands of Time.

***

When Virgil awakens in the mortal realm, he finds himself alone.

No way to speak with his friends or lovers or anyone. No way to find them either. He is mortal and he must merely wait and hope. And he has never been good at either.

But for them he will do his best.

***

He lives what should be two lives before he crosses paths with Logan. Virgil finds it funny how he was still named Logan despite him being mortal and having no control over his name. Virgil thinks the universe must have a sense of humor.

That is until he realizes that Logan doesn’t remember him. Does not remember anything.

Virgil finds that the universe is not funny; it is cruel. Cruel and ironic. The god of Knowledge unaware of his past. Unaware that he is missing the most important piece of knowledge he could possess.

Virgil would laugh were he not so furious. He wishes he could rain hell down on the earth as payment, to let off steam. Wishes he could command the tides as he used to, to shake the earth with his anger.

But he is merely mortal. And instead Virgil cries. He grieves and mourns and breaks ever so slightly. His precious north star has forgotten him and he doesn’t think he can find his way without him.

***

Slowly, Virgil meets everyone once again.

He hopes, with every fiber of his being that the next one will remember, that it is not just him the walks alone with the weight of All Things.

Every time that hope is shattered. Broken just when he put the pieces back together in a sad copy of what he had before.

Patton, Roman, Talyn, Joan, Dominic, even Thomas. None remember him and Virgil breaks further. He feels fragile, like broken glass held together with scotch tape. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if the scotch tape weren’t there anymore. If he was just the broken shards of glass.

Sometimes he wonders if it would be worse than this.

***

He is weaker, but magic still answers to his call. It is a sliver of the power he once wielded but Virgil prefers it. Prefers the small flame nestled in his chest rather than the roaring fires licking all around him, burning him from the inside out.

He uses every ounce of it to keep an eye on them all because he doesn’t know how to not worry about them. He uses it to locate them when they’re reborn. Because while Virgil never ages, seems immortal even when he’s no god, they still wither away before his eyes.

He watches them grow, and love and learn. Find happiness and sorrow and build a life without the weight of the universe on their shoulders.

And then he watches them die.

Over and over again.

He goes to every funeral.

He doesn’t know why the universe does this, doesn’t know why Chaos herself seems against him like this. Seems to be playing the cruelest joke on him. He wish it would stop. Would pick on someone else for once. But he knows that’s unlikely to happen.

He never talks to them, it’s too painful. But he can’t leave them. He thinks walking away would hurt so much worse. So he stays in this inbetween, still hoping but knowing he is alone.

Somedays he wonders if it’s worth it.

***

He’s walking down the street when he runs into Remy. The god-turned-mortal is flourishing in this new modern world. Virgil knew he would, in the back of his mind, and he almost wants to smile.

Instead he moves to turn around. Another familiar face--presence really, their mortal forms look nothing like their godly visages--is too much to bear. He’ll keep an eye on him but he will not engage. He promised himself that years ago.

But as Virgil has learned, things rarely ever go the way he wants them too.

“Autumn?”

The name is said in disbelief and the tiniest bit of hope, it’s so soft Virgil almost misses it. Slowly, he turns back around to find Remy staring at him, eyes wide and a little too bright.

Virgil’s throat feels like it’s closing up. Burning with the emotions stuck in his throat. The words stick to his tounge and his mouth feels full of ash but he forces them out. “What did you just say?”

Remy shakes himself. He looks defeated and confused. “No, no I- Sorry, Babe. Musta had the wrong-”

“No!” Suddenly Virgil is in front of Remy, his hands clutching at his leather jacket, eyes wide and desperate. “No, what did you say? You said Autumn. Why?”

Remy is startled, but he reagins himself quickly enough. In another situation Virgil might’ve smiled, Remy had always had the hardest feathers to ruffle.

He searches Virgil’s face before a tentative kind of hope seems to over take him. “You remember.”

Virgil nods. Not trusting his voice.

Remy hiccups a sob and Virgil feels not that far from joining. “You  _ remember, _ ” Remy breaths out in a hoarse whisper. “I thought, I thought I was the only one! I thought I was crazy or- or I don’t know. All the memories… they’re so hazy.”

Virgil registers the oddness of that statement, he can remember everything clearly, why can’t Remy?

He pushes it aside to analyze later. There are more important things right now. “How long?”

“Seventy five years.” Remy knows what he means immediately. As Gods their relationship had been rocky, but they had an easy connection. An understanding. As mortals it still persists. Perhaps even stronger since they don’t have that idiotic curse to strain it. Remy gives a strained smile, “Still have this youthful glow, though so not complaining,” he pauses, before continuing in a small voice, “What about you?”

Virgil laughs but there is no joy in it. It's a dark and bitter thing. “Three hundred twenty seven years. It took me the first hundred just to meet Logan.”

Remy wraps his arms around him then and Virgil knows that their standing in the middle of the sidewalk, that people are staring at them, but he can’t care right now. Someone else remembers. Nothing else matters at that moment.

Virgil thinks they might’ve stood there for hours before they stumble back to his apartment, bittersweet tears clouding their vision and hands clutching desperately to one another. Like if they let go the other will disappear and they’ll be all alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come bother me over on my tumblr, @lady-literature, it'll be a blast  
> I do the drawinng and stuff over there


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